


M'lord.

by SubmissiveKylo (prancing_queen)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: AU where Han is a member of Luke's kingsguard, Basically Luke is Robb Stark, M/M, this is the GoT AU no-one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:15:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prancing_queen/pseuds/SubmissiveKylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>❝Where to, your grace?❞<br/>❝—I’ve told you not to call me that.❞</p>
<p>AU where Han is a member of Luke's Kingsguard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M'lord.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so basically I've watched 4 seasons of GoT in a week and a half and this is the mash up my brain provided.
> 
> Do you need to have seen GoT/read ASOIAF to understand this? No. It's not going to follow it much.

They say that those who are to survive and thrive in the North must be born with the ice in their veins, and the bitter winds following their every step.

 

On the day that Luke Skywalker was born, the worst blizzard the North had seen in over a hundred years had blown in from beyond the wall. It was a good omen, the Maester had said, despite the way his teeth chattered and the chain tinkled at his throat with the force of his shivers, it was a sign from the old gods that the baby would be as fierce as the North itself. 

Families in the neighbouring villages had been left huddled around their fires, wrapped in furs simply  _ praying  _ for it to pass. There was no concern for religion then. Men and women, young and old, all venerated every god they knew, beseeching them to protect them and their families, and let them survive it unscathed.

 

When the baby was finally born and taken pink and screaming into the his mother’s arms, the wet nurse would tell him as he grew up that it was then that the blizzard abated, leaving the castle in a hush; and all the Lords and Ladies that had gathered murmured amongst themselves. The first born son, the future Lord of Winterfell, and what a Lord he would be.

 

The Lady Skywalker, she'd said, even as she lay dying, had smiled as she looked down at Luke, and gifted him with his name before she passed. The castle rang it's bells from dawn ‘til dusk for three days to mark her passing, and both Luke and Winterfell, were passed over to his uncle Owen, as per her wishes.

 

_ “What about my da’?”  _ Luke would ask on days like this, blue eyes wide and bright as he peered up at the nurse from his place on the window seat. Then she’d smile sadly, and brush her calloused fingers against his cheek. “A story for another time,” she'd reply, before sending him off to the kitchens, or to the courtyard where he could watch his uncle's vanguard fighting under the bleak northern sunlight, their steel flashing and ringing out as the clashed again and again. The men would grimace, sweat dripping from their brows until one of them dropped their sword, or a misplaced step saw a sword levelled at the other's throat, and Luke would lean against the railings separating him from their world, and listen to the yelp of “I yield! I yield!” whilst the master at arms laughed behind him, and ordered  _ “again.” _

 

Luke spent three summers watching and learning all he could about the knights. The way they walked and talked, and held themselves in the training ring was a source of endless fascination to him, and where he could, he mimicked them.

 

“I want to be a knight like Ser Darklighter.” He announced one day at dinner, the tips of his toes barely scuffing the flagstone floor as he swang them over the lip of the smooth wooden chair. His uncle had laughed then, long and loud, and when he glanced at his aunt for support, he was met instead with the sight of even her smiling into her dinner. Embarrassment and confusion filled him, and he looked away, staring into his bowl as the blood filled his cheeks.

 

"My boy,” Owen began, smiling not unkindly down at the young Skywalker, “you will be no knight. You are to be the Lord of Winterfell when you come of age, or when I die. Whichever comes first. It is your birthright. There must always be a Skywalker in Winterfell.” He explained, lifting his wine to end the short conversation, as if Luke were to  _ somehow  _ comprehend and accept this in his ten year old mind. 

 

Nonetheless, when he arrived at the library tower the next morning for his lessons, he was greeted not by the thick, dusty tomes on the history of the seven kingdoms and their many houses, but by the rare smile of the Maester, who told him his lessons, for today, were cancelled, and he was expected to report to  _ Ser Willis,  _ the master at arms instead.

 

His initial excitement was only dampened however, when he finally made it down to the courtyard, flushed and gasping, to be met with not only the master at arms, but another boy, a fair few years older than himself. The boy was tall, with dark hair, and sharp eyes that immediately put the young lord on the back foot. "This is him?” The boy drawled, capturing the attention of Ser Willis, who glanced across at Luke and smiled. “It is,” He replied, gesturing for Luke to come closer. “Your uncle bade me teach you the proper way to wield a sword. Now, you remember Lord Solo, of the Westerlands, yes? The Maester has taught you your own bannermen?”

 

“Yes sir,” Luke replied, glancing warily between the dark haired boy who was staring at him like he'd sprouted wings, and the attentive gaze of the master at arms. “He's seated at the Crag.” Ser Willis smiled at that, and nodded, clapping the boy at his side on the shoulder. “Well this here is his son, Han. He's going to be training with you for the time being.”

 

The boy, Han, hadn't seemed altogether too thrilled with the prospect of having to help teach a ten year old boy, and by the end of the session, Luke ached in ways he didn't think possible.

 

“I don't think he likes me much,” he'd commented to the nurse a few months later as she tutted over the fresh bruise marring the back of his thigh. "It's because I'm young, I think, and I'm not so good with the sword yet. It irks him. But I will be. Ser Willis says I have potential.” A cool breeze blew in through the open window, and he shivered as the nurse shook out the sheets behind him. “My sweet child,” she’d sighed as Luke turned his head to watch her, “don't grow up too fast. The world is dark. Be young whilst you still have the chance.”

 

It wouldn't be for many years that he'd understand what she'd meant.

 

Han, he saw more frequently as he grew older, and their relationship, as he’d guessed, only improved with age, and when they trained, no longer was it the little boys who had smacked at each other with wooden practice sticks filled with lead. Now the courtyard rang with the familiar clash of castle forged steel, and both parties laughed and taunted one another in much the same fashion as the knights Luke had idolised had when he was younger.

 

For his fifteenth name day, he was presented with a direwolf pup to raise. The sigil of his house.

_ If he manages to tame it,  _ the Maester had said,  _ he'll be able to tame anything. _

 

Grey Wind, he'd named it, and everywhere Luke went, the wolf obediently followed, and as he grew, so did it, along with his knowledge and understanding of the world. No longer was he shut out from his uncle's meetings with the bannermen of the North, instead, more often than not it was expected that he be present for the meetings, as future Lord and Warden of the North.

 

When he turned eighteen, his uncle was called away to King's Landing, and for the first time in his life, Luke was left as acting Lord in his stead.

 

It was as frightening as it was exhilarating, and he couldn't escape the knowledge that so much rested upon his shoulders. The servants and cooks, and even the old Maester addressed him as “my lord,” now, and it was beautifully strange to hear. Though that didn't stop Han from addressing him as “ _ little lord,”  _ whenever they passed in the castle halls.

 

He bore his role well, and for a time, everything seemed perfect. But all good things must come to an end, and for Luke, that end came via a rough hand on his shoulder, and the mournful howl of Grey Wind from the stables beyond his window.

 

“Luke? Wake up. We've got to go. Now.” The urgency in Han's tone woke him up faster than a bucket of cold water, and sitting up sharply, Luke clutched at the other man's shirt for a moment as he came back into himself. “What's going o-” 

 

Then it hit him. The smoke, the dull orange glow beyond his window. “Han? What's happening?” He demanded, temporarily struck dumb as his heartbeat raced in his ears. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. Outside, Grey Wind howled again, raising all the hairs on the back of Luke's neck.

 

“There's no time for this,” Han had replied, hauling Luke out of bed and pushing whatever clothing he could find into the young lord's arms. "Move it, kid, we've got to go.”

 

The castle was on fire. Why? Who had done this? What was going on?

He could almost hear the crackle of flames now, and it was that which spurred him into action, pulling on his clothes and cloak faster than he'd thought possible as a fresh objective laid itself down in his mind. Protect Winterfell. His sword was the last thing he snatched up, fastening it to his hip as Han hung over him like an omen of death itself.

 

”Come on. We have to get people out of here. Have you alerted my aunt, and the Maester, and the nurse? What about Ser Willis and the cook?” He asks sharply as he threw open the door and began taking the stairs two at a time down the tower, listening out for the hurried sound of Han's feet on the cut stone behind him. 

“Luke, no-”

“Well why not?-”

“-Luke if you'd just-”

“-They're of Winterfell too. We have to-”

“-We can’t.”

“-We have to get them out of here.”

It was then that Han had grabbed hold of Luke's shoulder and spun him around, the pair standing just at the entrance to the courtyard where they'd trained together so often as young boys. Where they'd both grown up.

 

“If you go up there you'll die. Do you understand me?” Han had snapped, and in the glow of the fire raging behind them, the desperation painted into his expression had seemed preternatural, shocking Luke into a temporary silence. “I can't leave  _ them _ to die!” He'd shouted back, his voice roughening the longer he stayed and breathed in the smoke stretching for the sky.

“They'll make it out themselves. You are a Skywalker, this is your home. You cannot die here. It's what they want, don't you get it?”

 

He didn't understand it at all, and shaking his head, he turned his gaze back to the towers, now completely aflame and belching embers which glowed like stars against the clouds.

 

"Luke, we have to leave.” Han was practically pleading now, and with a sound of pain, Luke finally nodded. Allowing Han to practically drag him to the stables where the horses and his Grey Wind were waiting.

 

_ There must always be a Skywalker in Winterfell.  _ He thought as he hastily mounted his horse, following hot on the tail of the knight in front of him, Grey Wind running at his side. The gates were already open to them, and as they clattered through the charred timbers, Luke was filled with a surge of hope. If the gates were open, perhaps people made it out.

 

Behind him, the castle bell clanged as the bell tower collapsed, and the horizon glowed with the ferocity of Winterfell’s fire, but resolutely, Luke kept his gaze fixed forwards.

 

He wouldn't look back.

  
Not even when he finally heard the screaming, faint over the crackle of the flames.

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me through both Twitter and tumblr at 'SubmissiveKylo'.


End file.
